


Pluralization

by burymeonpluto



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Drabble, Flowery Prose, Gen, Light Angst, intentional vagueness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 02:22:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11957718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burymeonpluto/pseuds/burymeonpluto
Summary: He wondered what would be left of him, once they were freed from his heart. He never thought of what they might take on their way out.





	Pluralization

 

 

 

Sadness and rage. He can still see them burning in those eyes, as blue and deep as utter oblivion. He feels the residual aches within himself. They echo off the vaulted walls of his empty, cathedral heart. Windows smeared with the residue of others that once lay there in pieces.

Those blue eyes are sad for him. They’re angry on his behalf. Stabbing at an injustice that’s befallen what was once a part of him.

And she has a face built from memory. She withers as it siphons the feelings from the blue. Some feeble attempt to lessen his burden. She is wavering there, a scrap of someone nearly forgotten—yet she holds fast to her promise to help him. To protect him. Her eyes are warm like a cherished childhood memory. They pull it all away to drip lavishly down her cheeks.

The sun stands behind a matching face with bittersweet mouth and tired eyes. His airy light flows like the whisper of smoke. His wayward heart trembles with the static of a waking limb, conquering the thrashing shadows. A speck of doubt and sorrow festers beneath the shelter of the light. It pokes through and then sinks, struggling to stay afloat in his restlessness. The mark of his regrets. It is nearly smothered by his boundless gratitude.

He is the heaviest weight that once hung within his chest. The wind moans through hollow cavities with him no longer there.

But his own face stands motionless as someone else. It stares back at him, vaguely displeased. His shadow ripples and creates him. A throbbing mire of sorrow, fear, and hate. His budding emotions gouging themselves, lapping at his edges like waves. That stark golden stare has now turned to a purpose. The heaps of dark that made him are now even stronger when set against his light. A spark of hope ignited beneath the doubt and negativity. A blazing fire drawn from nothing at all. A smirk is pulled from his embers and it shines with vitality and life.

Life…

His gaze slips down. He sees his own quaking knees buried in the sand. The warm breeze cuts clean through his chest. He is so light that he fears he may float away. The eyes of these four and stinging upon him. Though his smile is glad, his heart still aches. So many pieces have been ripped from him. What could possibly be left? He’s carried their weight for so long he’s become anxious without it.

But he can still feel them. Their carvings on the walls of his heart. Their imprints on his body. The worn-down sections of his memories where they’ve tread in circles for so long. His weather-beaten soul has been shaped by their existences, eroded in the places they called home.

Now they are their own. These four have their own futures, and brim with electricity. He feels it beaming from inside them. The connection they share—they all have the power. They can grasp it in their hands open any path.

His arm shudders. He holds out a trembling hand and calls for that power. He can still remember it floating in his palm, an extension of himself. The warmth of the light to stave off the falling sun.

But there’s nothing there now. His hands are empty.

An unwelcome tear slides down through the specks of every battle that stains his cheek. Every drop of blood that wouldn’t wash out. It drips from his chin, cold and dirty.

He has no right to be upset. He had no right to that power to begin with. It dropped into his hands while falling from the towers of others’ suffering. It was never his at all.

And yet—

He buries his face in his arm, his chest collapsing in. He should’ve known.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> All of the flowery vagueness! This feels like flash-fiction, I swear...
> 
> I know the idea of this happening in canon is pretty impossible, but damn, would it be some good character development material. I mean, they already took the Keyblade away from him once, so... yeah, it's not happening. 
> 
> But this was fun to write, regardless. (Especially the wordplay with identifying characters without names or descriptions. Such fun.) It's been sitting in my files for a while and I've finally come to terms with the fact that it's never going to be anything more than this, so here it is. A flash.


End file.
